The day before the diet: No sugar, no dairy, no wheat, no problem! It's just 14 days, right? I can do anything for 14 days. That's it! I'm totally going on this diet. Tomorrow. First, I have to watch all the videos about the diet, post them on face book, buy 45 pounds of fresh produce, buy some cute new clothes in my future size and drink all the wine in the house.
Two weeks go by: 45 pounds of once fresh produce are emptied from the vegetable bin.
The day before the diet (take 2): Oh. My. God. These can't be my fat pants. And where are my feet?
Day 1: This is the most boring diet ever. Water. And more water. And celery. Oh, hey, look, a thumb-size portion of salmon and 4 cups of raw cabbage!
Day 2: Dr. Oz is a raging psychopath. Sure, he looks nice. Ted Bundy looked nice. I haven't lost one bloody pound. I hate this diet. I hate Dr. Oz.
Day 3: What I could do is, get tickets for the show, disguise myself as a harmless elderly person, and then when that psychotic bastard makes his entrance, I could leap onto the stage, smash him in the face with my purse, then run up the middle aisle and be out of the building before anyone has time to react. That would show him. Why hasn't someone already thought of this?
Day 4: Or I could kidnap him, tie him up in my basement, and force feed him donuts and wonder bread for three months. Then, when he's fat and hooked, I'll feed him nothing but water, celery, and the occasional 6 ounces of chicken. See how he likes it.
Day 5: I could just eat him...
Day 6: Remember when we could have wine? Remember cheese and crackers? Oh oh oh, remember that chocolate fudge birthday cake that time? Good times.
Day 7: If I were rich, I would buy my own liposuction machine. I'd suck all the fat out of my ass and inject some into my cheeks. Then I'd send the rest to Dr. Oz. In a red wagon.
Day 8: If I were rich and had my own liposuction machine, all of the housewives would want to be my friends, except maybe Lisa Vanderpump. Her house probably has its own liposuction salon.
Day 9: Lisa's liposuction salon probably employs mean, ridiculously attractive millennials who'll make up the cast of the next Bravo reality show, Vanderpump Hoes.
Day 10: I mean Hose.
Day 11: The next person in this house who asks me, "What's for dinner?", is going to get pistol-whipped with this bunch of celery. They'll be like, "Hey, Mom, what's for dinner?", and I'll be like, "Oh, hey, meet my leetle friend! Smack. Smack. Smack." That's what you get for being able to eat potatoes.
Day 12: I could make a documentary about dieting. I'll renovate a Winnebago and travel cross country interviewing people on diets. The cinematography will be stunning; the narrative, life-changing. I'll dedicate it to Dr. Oz.
Day 13: In the movie version of me making a movie, Nicole Kidman can play me. I'll hang out on the set. We'll eat broccoli and chia seeds together.
Day 14: If I film part of my documentary in Hawaii, and I'm invited to a luau, I won't be able to eat anything but the pig. I'll bet that's considered bad form."Oh, hey, Aloha, where's your pig?"
Day 15: It's probably not that easy to get a Winnebago to Hawaii anyway, which is too bad because I LOST 10 POUNDS. I would look stunning in a muumuu. If Bruce Springsteen saw me in a muumuu, he'd probably write a song about it. And sing it at the luau. Then we'd sit in a corner by ourselves, eating all the pig.
Day 16: Mmmmm Wine.
2 weeks later: Whaaaaa? Who inflated me???? And where are my feet?
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| You can have the fruit. I'll take the pig. |
